"You do Chinese?"

I came to a simple but startling realization the other day: I'm the only one shaping Evelyn's Chinese abilities, including her accent, the size of her vocabulary, and her word choices. This realization was recalled once again when the little girl asked her visiting auntie, my sister, "A-Yi (auntie), you do Chinese?", as if it is an interesting fact she just observed.
It reminded me of how much responsibility rests on my shoulders, aside from loving her and taking care of her physical needs. I've given her the Taiwanese blood, and the duty of providing her with the cultural heritage to go along with it rests solely on my shoulders. I'm currently the only person who speaks Chinese to her on a daily basis. She only gets as much as I can offer; my quirks, my preferences and my tone would be accepted by her as the norm and standard, be it good or bad. What I say and however I say it, is IT. What I teach her would be largely what she goes by. I have the power and responsibility to mold her. Goodness gracious, I, am the sky! In truth, this is a terrifying thought. Even though I am a born Taiwanese and has been speaking Chinese my entire life, how much can I be sure that my handle of the language is apt? That my knowledge of it is sound? How could I be sure that I am showing her how beautiful and deep this one language can be? No matter. I can only try my best. For the love of her, and of where I am from.

Aliens and vocanos

When I was pregnant with the little girl, often times would I feel like a host with an alien life form in me trying to break out. Her head, butt, or limbs would push and stretch and make this visible lump on my belly that is quiet impressive to behold.
This time, I feel like I have a mud volcano sitting in me. Rather then a kick or a punch, I have gigantic bubbles burst in me, sending reverberations to the deepest corners of my being. Instead of a stretch, I feel rumbles. Honey baby darling, what are you doing in me?

No, this is not just a beer pouch, my dear

"That's a cute top, where did you get it?"
I looked back at the bunch of students whom I only met a few minutes ago, and found that the question was directed at me.
I searched out the question issuer; fresh faced, slim, young, not an expecting mom.
"Um, this is a maternity shirt," I said quietly, suppressing mirth and the urge to gesticulate, like the girls in those afternoon game shows, in front of me while narrating at the same time "note the protruding abdominal section, the thickness of which has surpassed the chest, note how she waddles just very slightly and how she sits and stands up with a groan about her back... you guessed it! She's pregnant!" I might also flash the number 26 at times during the presentation as in "she is in her 26th weeks!"
"Oh," the student replied, and we continued the walk in a bit of an awkward silence.

Sandwich

Bedtime. The little girl and her father lay side by side on her narrow twin bed for a bedtime story. I sat on the nearby rocker, and settled down for a few minutes of rest with this very enjoyable view.
"Mommy, come here," the little girl demanded. I very reasonably pointed out that there was no more room on the bed. She thought about it for a second.
"Make a sandwich!" she exclaimed, and wiggled herself to stack on top of her father. Sure enough, now there's space beside her just enough for me to squeeze in and layer on top of her to form the sandwich.
I laughed. There was just no escaping, was there?

All by myself!

This summer has yet to be real summer like. There was too much rain, and too many cool days. But whenever the sun shines, we'd change into our swim suites and head to the pool. So what if the water is still bitterly cold, we've got to make summer happen. This afternoon was no exception.
I blew up the floating ring, and we marched to the pool with it. The little girl spared no time stepping into the ring and got herself floating. Inexperienced as she was with the device, she sometimes struggled to maintain balance. But all in all, she managed to stay afloat and travel a few inches at a time by wiggling her whole body. If we reach out to help, she'd wave our hands away with a determined "I do it!" So be it. We'd retract our hands, but stay close to her as discreetly as we could, just to make sure there are no accidents. Then, it happened.
I was sitting at one end of the kiddie pool, my legs dangling in the cool, cool water, watching her play with her dad, and listening to her bright laughter erupting from time to time to hang over the pool like the golden sunlight. Her father was right beside her, helping her toss a soft ball back and forth with another little girl. At the end of their game, he told the little girl to "swim to mommy" and turned around to put the ball away. Right at the split second when he turned, the little girl launched herself almost out of the float, and plunged into the water, completely submerging into it.
I called her father, and rushed over to rescue her. Lifted out of the water, she was not coughing or choking, but did got some water in her eyes (the goggles she wore was more decorative then practical). "I need towel! I need a tissue!" she cried. I brought her out of the pool and bundled her up in the toasty blanket, mumbling mumble jumbles to calm her down. Except that she didn't need to be calmed down.
When she eventually stopped rubbing her eyes and showed her face, she had only one thing to say "Evelyn went under the water ALL BY MYSELF!", all proud like. As her mother, I could not be more proud and tickled by that statement. My brave little girl.

Parade

After dinner, there was a rainbow hanging before the clouds due to the rain that came to visit and the sun that refused to hide away. The little girl announced that a walk is in need, so we set out in the settling dusk. As we walked along, the little girl started going "Dong! Dong! Dong!" and drummed her fists on her thighs as if she's wearing a marching drum. After a few seconds, she pointed at me and said "you, boo-boo-boo-boo-boo", while putting a hand in front of her mouth as if she's blowing at a horn; then she pointed at her daddy and said "you, bee-bee-bee-bee-bee" with pursed lips, as if she's playing some other invisible instrument. What else could we do but to comply. Thus the three of us marched in a row, one playing a drum, one blowing a horn, and one doing a funky version of a trumpet, like a paired down version of New Orleans jazz band, having a grand old time.

The Becoming of Darth Vadar: as told by a two year old

Describing how Anakin Skywalker became Darth Vadar, the two and a half year old told me: "Anakin has red eyes, big boo-boos, put mask on."